AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I know that you’ve been visiting my mama,” he speaks so quietly, and looks hurt. Suddenly, I feel guilty, and the last thing I need after all that's happened today is an argument.
“I’m sor—”
“I ain’t mad,” he interrupts, swishing the amber liquid around in the glass before he knocks it back.
“You did something real brave today, and you let me in. It's only fair that I do the same for you. I promise that once we’ve had a decent sleep, I’ll tell you everything you need to know about me.”
“I’d really like that.” I take his hand and lead him into the bedroom.
“I wish I could have killed them all myself,” I admit as he slides into the bed beside me.
“No more killing, Rogue,” Grimm tells me sleepily, and I watch his eyes close and his body relax.
The sound of my cell phone buzzing disturbs me, and I quickly grab it before it disturbs Rogue. It’s the care home and for them to be calling this late at night, it has to be something bad.
“Mr. Carter, it’s your mother, she isn’t having a very good night. We thought it best you come in and try and stabilize her before we give her any medication.”
“No, no medication, I’m on my way.” Hanging up the phone, I quickly throw on some pants and a shirt.
“Where you goin’?” Rogue stirs, her voice all cute and sleepy as she stretches out her body.
“I got something I need to take care of, I’ll be back in a few hours, and then we’re gonna spend the day together.”
“Anything I can help with?” she yawns, and for a second I think about taking her with me, but I can’t, not until I’ve explained everything to her properly.
“No, darlin’, but I do need you to stay here.”
“Cross my heart.” She rises to her knees, climbing up my body and kissing my neck. “Come back to me,” she whispers, assuming that it’s club shit I’m going to deal with.
I ride my bike to the care home as fast as I can, knowing that when Mama gets like this, there’s only one person who can calm her down. The nurse that meets me at the entrance looks worn out.
“She’s been up all night asking for your father,” she explains, leading me briskly to Mama’s door. “We can’t calm her down and we didn’t want to try sedation until you’d had a chance to calm her yourself.” I nod back at her gratefully then wait until she’s turned her back before I open up the door into my very own version of hell.
Mama looks wired, her hair unruly and her nightdress clutched in her fists as she paces the room.
“Richie, my dear boy.” She runs at me and crushes me between her arms. “It’s your father, he hasn’t visited in days, something’s happened to him, I know it has. I can feel it.” I take a deep breath that I hope will help me find strength. Then taking her shoulders, I hold her steady in front of me.
“I’m sure he’s fine, Mama, he’ll be home soon.” Playing her game breaks my heart. But I do it for all she’s suffered. Over the years it’s become more and more difficult. The longer I do it for, the more it drains out of me, and I’ve been doing this ever since the day I buried my dad’s body in the woods.
I’ll never forget waking up that next morning and finding her pressing his shirt. She’d made him his breakfast, and done his lunch bag for work. She acted as if nothing happened, spending the day making sure the house was spotless, ready for his inspection when he got home, and that evening she laid the table for him and served him up a plate.
At first, I thought it was out of habit. When you’ve had things drilled into your head the way she had for all those years I figure it’s hard to stop. But as time progressed and she’d talk about him like he was expected home any moment, I started to realize I had a real problem on my hands.
I put it down to shock, hoping that this was her way of dealing with everything. But as she got progressively worse, I had to accept that the issue was way more serious. Mama had erased that night from her memories.
Her head invented its own story about him working away on business. I was only sixteen back then and I had no idea how to deal with her, so I’d played along.
She made herself ill keeping the house tidy to his standard. It wasn’t just her mental state that forced me to get help. I somehow managed to keep her alive for a year but it was becoming harder. She’d leave the iron on, take dishes out of the oven without using mitts. I had to watch her deteriorate, slowly losing more and more of her every day. And there was nothing I could do about it.
“Richie, look at you, your shirt’s all creased and your hair’s all over the place.” Her eyes fall onto my hands and her mouth drops open. “What’s this, tattoos?” She reaches out to grab my arms, forcing my shirt up to my elbows and studying my ink as if it’s the first time she’s ever seen it. I usually cover my arms when I visit her, but I’ve never been able to hide the ink on my hands. I always figured she chose to blank it out, same way she does all the other things she hates.
“You know what your father thinks of tattoos, they’re the devil's markings. Why would you do this to your body…? If he comes home now and see’s you like this…”
I don’t know what it is that makes me snap. Maybe it’s because I’ve had one hell of a long-assed fucking day, or perhaps I’m just fucking exhausted from all this shit, but suddenly I lose patience.
“But he isn’t coming home, is he, Mama? He’s not coming home because he’s fucking dead.” She gasps, stepping away from me, her tired eyes suddenly widening to full capacity.
“Why would you say such a thing?” she shakes her head at me, looking disgusted.
